‘Don’t you see dozens of people having a good time, improving and enjoying themselves? A mass of humanity buzzing with just being here.’

‘No.’

‘Again. Look closer,’ he insists.

There is one old guy playing a violin. He’s ancient; he has a long, white beard. He is playing Vivaldi’s ‘Spring’. He skips lightly through the air, barely landing before rising again, his skinny limbs tapering in effortless rhythm. Grudgingly I throw some coins into his battered Panama. He is talented. He moves his head in a slight dip, more dignified than a bow. Darren smiles at me. I smile back.

We cross over the river and reach Embankment tube station. It’s heaving. A burly mass of drunks in suits and drunks in rags. Distinguishable simply by their disposable incomes. Darren fights, through the morons and marauders, to the ticket machine. He buys our tickets. Mine for east London, his for south. We’re on separate lines and going in separate directions.

‘Will you be OK getting home?’

‘Fine. I’m a tube veteran.’ This is a lie. I usually catch a cab but if I say so I’ll have to explain why I’ve just walked half a mile to the tube station. Which I can’t explain, not even to myself.

‘Well, it’s been great to meet you, Cas. A very entertaining evening.’ Darren stops and turns to face me.

‘I bet you’ve hated every second.’

‘Not at all.’ He hesitates, then adds, ‘The reverse.’

I smile broadly, relieved. ‘Well, goodnight.’

‘Goodnight.’ Neither of us moves. Suddenly this feels very date-like. Will he kiss me? Is he going to shake my hand? He leans in and I think he’s going to kiss my cheek so I move my head suddenly. In fact, it appears his original target was my lips but my sudden manoeuvre means that his smacker ends up somewhere between my chin and earring. We jump apart and Darren heads towards the ticket barrier. It’s certain. He’s going to walk out of my life and back to his trees.

And right now I can’t think of anything more soul-destroying.

My reluctance over letting him go must be attributable to the amount of wine I’ve drunk. Isn’t it? God, I really fear it’s more than that.

‘Darren!’ My yell slices through the crowds and almost as though he’d been waiting, Darren responds immediately by turning and walking straight back to me. I usher him away from the tube-station crowds, back towards the river. I’m buying time as I formulate a plan.

‘At the very least I have to be seen to have done everything in my power to persuade you to come on the show.’

‘You have,’ he assures.

‘Not everything.’

Darren looks a bit shocked. ‘Are you going to—’

I read his mind. ‘No. Not that,’ I interrupt, understanding at once that he thinks I am going to offer to have sex with him. I’m unaccountably insulted. Darren blushes.

‘That’s a relief.’ Then he blushes again. ‘Not that I wouldn’t want to, but the circumstances are—’

I help us both out by interrupting him. Before I’ve even thought about what I’m going to say, or why I’m saying it, or the consequences of opening my mouth at all, habitual bullshitting kicks in.

‘No, my proposition is of a different nature. I’d like to be given the chance to present my side of the story. To do that I’d need to spend some time with you. I’d need to shadow you for a day or so.’ It’s a gamble but I’m a player. He looks at me doubtfully.

‘You won’t change my mind.’

‘Maybe not, but at least give me the opportunity to appear to have done my best. It will save my bacon with the guys at TV6.’

This isn’t true. In fact, what I should do now is return to the studio and help Fi recruit a replacement scenario.

But after spending the evening with him I know that if he were to appear on Sex with an Ex, it would be the best show ever. He’s delicious-looking, articulate, sexy and moral. If I could publicize his objections and how we overcame them, the entire country would support Sex with an Ex. There have been some objections to the show. Few and far between, and in my opinion mostly hypocritical. But those who are squeamish about weddings collapsing like stacked cards would surely throw their lot in with TV6 if someone like Darren has. Who could resist Darren? And although I can’t be sure that he will be persuaded I’ve got to give it my best shot.

I begin to mentally rearrange my schedule and calculate how much Fi will be able to handle on her own if I’m not in the studio. At the same time that I’m making these hurried calculations, trying to predict scenarios, outcomes and consequences, Darren is leisurely weighing up the proposition, which he has taken at face value.

‘I was taking the week off work, expecting to be on the show. Now I’m planning on going to see my parents and family.’ With something near reluctance, he sighs, ‘You won’t change my mind but if it helps you out with your bosses, you can join me for a couple of days.’

‘Great.’ I smile. Agreeing before I know whether I mean it. ‘So where do your parents live?’

‘Whitby.’

‘Where?’

He laughs, ‘Whitby, you know, in North Yorkshire.’ No, I don’t know. It sounds a long way off. It sounds a different and uncivilized world. But the show must go on. How bad can it be? I nod and try to appear informed without committing myself.

‘OK, Cas, I’m happy for you to shadow me, if that’s the official term, but I think we’d both have a better time if you started to trust me and enjoy yourself.’

I’m not here to enjoy myself and I don’t do trust. I bite my tongue and resist pointing out either of these pertinent facts.

‘Trust simply leads to disappointment,’ I state frankly.

‘Listen to yourself, Cas. You are not convincing anyone with this super-hard bitch act.’

He is very wrong. I’ve convinced eight primary school teachers, twelve senior school teachers, dozens of fellow students, scores of colleges, numerous girlfriends, exactly fifty-three lovers and my mother. Even Issie, painful as it is for her, admits from time to time, ‘You can be so callous.’ What is this obsession with being soft? Isn’t it obviously asking for trouble? Asking to end up hurt, abused, alone? I like being impenetrable. I don’t want to be discovered.

Darren pauses and stares out at the river. It’s twinkling, which surprises me. I always think of the Thames as a rest point for crap and sanitary towels.

‘You know what I think?’

‘No, bowl me over,’ I sigh.

‘You just want to be discovered. You want someone to make the effort and scratch the surface. You want to be loved. You just want to make it difficult. A modern-day Agamemnon challenge. You are the same as every woman I’ve ever met.’

I didn’t realize Darren could be so insulting.

I look at him and he is gorgeous. The streetlights are reflected in the river. The reflection bounces up to illuminate Darren. He looks like an angel. He smiles and he’s mucky sexy. He looks like a devil. I’ve never come across anything so complex and compelling in my entire life. I realize that it’s going to be more important than ever, and quite possibly harder than ever, to keep up my super-hard bitch act. And whilst my mind is resolving that I won’t let my guard slip for a second, I hear my disloyal tongue say, ‘Oh bugger it. Go on then, show me a good time. I don’t suppose you’ll be able to.’ I grin my challenge. But even I don’t believe me.

9

We meet at King’s Cross station. I spot Darren as soon as the cab sets me down. He stands out like a beacon. But then that’s not so extraordinary as he’s sharing the platform with prostitutes, beggars and commuters. As I approach him he takes my bag from me and briefly kisses me on the cheek. It’s comfortable. It’s unnerving.

‘You look good,’ he murmurs, smiling appreciatively.

‘What, this old thing?’ I shrug.

‘This old thing’ was actually a look achieved after nine hours’ searching through Issie’s wardrobes and mine. I like the final effect. It’s a sort of rock-chic-meets-country-girl ensemble. I think it works, although Issie had doubts. She had questioned whether a six-hundred-quid pony-skin skirt was appropriate for a dash around North Yorkshire. I ignored her advice; after all, she doesn’t read the style pages. She also kept going on about how I’d be cold in a short-sleeved jumper. I explained that my upper arms were really toned at the moment and needed full exposure. She sighed and stuffed another cardigan in my bag. I’m grateful now because? it is freezing on the platform.

Issie had been a bit irritating all round, whilst I packed for this tour of duty. She commented, ‘North Yorkshire sounds very romantic. Isn’t that where the Brontës are from?’

‘Is it? I thought it was Lancashire. Didn’t all the Brontës die spinsters?’ I feigned ignorance. ‘Besides which, we’re going to visit his family. Have you ever known families to be romantic?’

Issie reminded me of the guy she met through her mother, on New Year’s Eve. I reminded her that he never called. ‘So why are you going to Whitby, if you think it’s going to be so dour?’

‘I explained, Issie, I have to get him to agree to be on the show. It’s a matter of professional and personal pride.’

‘Nothing more than pride?’ I’ve been asking myself exactly the same thing all night.

‘I’ve explained, he’d make a great show. He’d silence our few lingering critics.’

‘Nothing more than a great show?’ asked Issie. She didn’t sound as though she believed me. I admit Darren is interesting and funny and ridiculously fanciable. I admit that if Issie were choosing to travel halfway across the globe to visit some guy’s family I’d think it was because she’d fallen for him. But the same can’t be said of me, can it? I’m only doing this for the good of TV6.